


it never happened

by janie_tangerine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death Fix, Fix-It, Fluff, M/M, Past Abuse, Post - A Dance With Dragons, Spoilers for Book 5 - A Dance with Dragons, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Wishful Thinking, kingsguard!Theon, listen it was all a dream and nothing horrible happened, retconning that puts the X3 retcon to shame, so much fluff you'll drown in it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-02-05 08:09:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1811371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>where Theon wakes up in a world where he never betrayed Robb and he's the king in the North's Lord Commander.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it never happened

**Author's Note:**

> Aaand throbb week fic the sixth. (I'm losing count.) This was written for a kinkmeme prompt that I long lost about... meh. I think I wrote it at some point after S2 aired and never posted it for I don't even know what reasons, and it's convenient fluff and it was even edited, so here we go. It pretty much was along the lines of 'Theon wakes up in a world where he never betrayed Robb - basically It's a Wonderful Life in reverse'. This is like the most ridiculous retconning fluff ever. I don't even regret it anymore.
> 
> The title is from The National, nothing belongs to me of course.

He lies on the ground of the room that was his when he was six, and he shakes. He hopes that no one goes to check on him - not that they would, with the kingsmoot done and his sister wearing a crown. Which is good - really. He was never made for that. She had invited him downstairs for the feast, but he had declined, and now he’s trying to sleep but he can’t. He just thinks.

If only he had done _one_ thing differently. Not necessarily everything - just one. He could have gone back to Robb. He could have left Winterfell alone. He could have gone to the Wall. He could have gone with his sister. But no - the only one out of these he really wishes he had done is the first. Maybe Robb would have never slept with that girl if he hadn’t -

He tries not to vomit. He knows it’s his fault, or at least partly, and he doesn’t - he _never_ wanted - if only he could do it all over again.

He snorts as he stands up, swaying - no one goes back in time and no one gets second chances. Not as if he deserves them, anyway.

His entire body hurts as he curls on himself, the blanket he drew over himself not making him feel any warmer. There’s wind howling outside and sea crashing on the shore, and he can smell salt from here, and he hates it.

If only he had gone back or never left at all. But after all, it doesn’t matter that now he’d take better decisions.

He won’t have a chance to do it anyway. It’s cold when he falls asleep, and some of his tears stick to his skin instead of falling on the ground.

\--

His sleep is usually light, and troubled, and it never lasts long.

This time, it’s deep and dreamless.

\--

He wakes up on a warm bed.

It takes him a moment to realize that he isn’t dreaming. There’s a body pressed up behind him, an arm slung carelessly over his hip. He looks straight ahead, towards the window. It’s dawn, he thinks, a faint pink light bathing the forest in front of Winterfell -

_Winterfell?_

His entire body goes taut, and then he bolts from the bed and looks down at himself.

His feet are whole. His chest isn’t flayed. He pulls down the loose breeches he had on - they’re dirty and stained with something that looks very much like dried come, and his groin isn’t skinned either. And then he pulls up his hands and - all his fingers are there. He sees a flash of black and brings his hand to his head. His hair is long again. He pulls hard enough to pluck at it - it’s dark at the roots. Blissfully dark and not white. And then he turns towards the bed and -

Oh, fuck.

He crashes to his knees on the side of it, looking at Robb’s flushed face, at his chest moving up and down, breathing normally, and he’s alive and Theon doesn’t know what this is but _why were they sharing a bed?_

And _what is this_? He remembers thinking about second chances, but he never - this can’t be real. This can’t be real and -

“Theon?” comes from the bed, and he goes still. He hasn’t heard Robb’s voice in years, even if he’s heard it enough in his head and in his nightmares, and his hands are trembling and he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s even doing.   
“Seven hells,” Robb mutters under his breath before getting off the bed and next to him. He pulls Theon to his feet, drags him to the bed again, and Theon lets him because he doesn’t - why is this happening? Why is Robb like _this_? He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t.

A moment later Robb has thrown blankets over them and his hands are on Theon’s shoulders and he doesn’t know what to make out of this.

“Don’t do that,” Robb whispers, moving closer. “Talk to me, all right? What was this time?”

_This time?_ “I - I didn’t - why are you even doing this?”

Robb’s eyes narrow, then widen in understanding or something close to it and then his hands go to Theon’s face and he’s so close.

“Let me guess. It was the one where you burned that letter you sent me, didn’t you?”

Theon’s eyes go wide. Wait. _That letter you sent me?_ “Look at me. You never did that. You came back. I won the war. It’s fine. That never happened.”

Robb’s voice is all calm and patience, as if this is something he practiced, and then Theon glances at the ground and sees that there’s a white cloak thrown on it.

Oh. And he’s in Robb’s bed, and Robb has drawn him slightly closer, and then a bit more, and he doesn’t know what this is but his hands twitch (and there are no fingers missing) and he buries one in Robb’s hair and he shudders at the contact. It’s been so long, so very long, and he doesn’t know what he did to deserve this but if it’s a dream then he doesn’t want to wake up.

He’s still shaking, though. Robb frowns, his thumb running along Theon’s cheek. “It wasn’t just that.”

“What?”

“It wasn’t just that. It wouldn’t be the first time and it never was as bad as this.”

Theon stays silent.

“It was your father as well, wasn’t it?” Robb asks, as if it isn’t the first time it happens either. Theon gives him a half-nod - it isn’t technically true but his stomach clenches the moment he thinks about Ramsay Bolton and it really would be a bad idea if he went there.

The moment Robb kisses him Theon loses it. He grabs Robb’s shoulders hard enough to hurt and he kisses back without restraint. Robb’s hands are on his cheeks still, and Theon feels them wiping away tears, and he hopes that Robb doesn’t understand that it’s more relief than anything else. He doesn’t even try to move until he’s gasping for air, and gods the way Robb looks at him, all soft and understanding and concerned is making him want to fall on his knees in front of him asking for forgiveness.

Except that he doesn’t have to ask for it now, apparently.

And it’s all wrong again because he should say sorry, he should be begging for scraps, and instead Robb is pulling him close again and kissing the side of his head. He feels so lightheaded, he can barely think.

“Listen, do you want to stay in longer? Jon won’t mind covering for you.”

Right, Theon thinks. Kingsguard. Or so it seems. And Snow is in it, too? He needs to find out what exactly happened without giving himself away.

“Are you sure? I mean, I can -”

“Even Lord Commanders can take half a day,” Robb jokes, his hand carding through Theon’s hair, and Theon almost faints - _Lord Commander_? “And I just have to convince a few lords that Sansa doesn’t want to marry anytime soon. I doubt blood will be spilled. Get some sleep - if I can’t come, I’ll send someone in the afternoon.”

“Thanks,” Theon replies almost meekly, trying not to sound the way he had when his name wasn’t Theon anymore.

Robb’s lips quirk up before he gets off the bed and grabs some clothes. This isn’t his room, most probably, and the sun hasn’t properly come up yet - if they’re keeping this quiet, he’ll have to go, Theon figures.

“Idiot,” Robb says before moving back to his side of the bed. “You shouldn’t even think about saying that.”

He leans down, his lips pressing against Theon’s, a kiss brief but sweet enough that Theon can feel his hands tingling. “Get some rest,” Robb whispers, and then he’s gone, the door shutting softly behind him.

Theon stays there, lying in that nice, soft bed, the blankets so very warm. He’s wary to go back to sleep, but he’s tired and so he does, and when he wakes up the sun is high in the sky and he’s still there. He gets off the bed and starts grabbing the clothes that were thrown on the ground. It’s all white fabric. He opens the closet to find most of the clothes he used to own when Ned Stark still was alive, along with another pile of white ones. When he calls for some water, a maid is there in minutes and when he looks down at himself in a mirror after having washed his face, his face isn’t thin and his teeth are all there. He swallows, changing into new clothes, feeling strange - he’s never worn white in his entire fucking life. There’s a sword up in the corner - he figures it’s his. For last, he takes the cloak, and that’s when he stops dead in his tracks. There’s a direwolf sewn on the back - obviously, if Robb is just king in the North. And it’s not all white - it’s white and light gray. His hands tremble when he wraps it on his shoulders, feeling so unworthy of it that he has to resist the urge to throw it away.

And then the door opens and Robb walks in. He’s smiling again, looking at him appreciatively. “Always said that white looked better on you than all that dark gray,” he says, moving forward, wrapping an arm around Theon’s waist.

“It does?”

“Definitely. Do you feel better?”

He swallows, his hand going to Robb’s neck, his thumb moving absently over Robb’s pulse point.

“Yes. I’m sorry if -”

“Don’t. It’s no hardship. It never was. So, are you coming down?”

“Sure. _Your Grace_.” The words roll off his tongue, he hasn’t sounded this cocky in months if not years, and then Robb laughs and pretends to punch him in the side and kisses him again, and Theon doesn’t know how this happened or why or what’s the catch but it doesn’t matter. When they get out of the room, he’s surprised when no one calls him Greyjoy or turncloak or prince. It’s just Theon, from anyone, and Theon feels himself almost bursting. _They know my name_ , he thinks, and it’s a lot sweeter than the last time he thought such a thing. _And I know it, too_.

Whatever happens now, he isn’t going to ruin this all over again.

End.


End file.
